


Your Debutante Knows What You Need; But I Know What You Want

by elvisqueso



Category: Bleeder, Charlie Countryman (2013), Coco Chanel & Igor Stravinsky, Confessions of a Shopaholic - Fandom, Hannibal (TV), Hysteria (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Deaf!Will, Drabble Collection, Freeform, Medical Kink, So much random shit I don't even know how to tag this, sometimes there's sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-02-23 00:40:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 12,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2527592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elvisqueso/pseuds/elvisqueso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of drabbles.  Some requested, some not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Michaelangelo Couldn't Have Carved That Ass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal go to an art museum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Melina](http://www.fivetooneinfive.tumblr.com/) giving me dangerous ideas again:
>
>> You should have Hannibal take Will to an art museum. And you could do all of Hannibal’s sly moves like he’s supposed to be studying the art but he’s just studying Will’s ass. (No… I’m kidding. Mostly)

"These just amaze me," Will leans in over the velvet rope, head tilted to view the statue better, "this is carved from pure marble, yet they manage to make the fabric look completely sheer."

"Like impressions left on the eyelids," Hannibal says, a few feet back, peering through glass cases at two terra cotta models of classic roman discipline.  "It’s mastering the suggestion of shape, and life, within the marble itself.  Many artist would claim their canvases already have the art in them, waiting to be brought out."

He turns back a moment to glance at Will, seeing first the profile in curls and then the arch of his back down to the generous curve of his ass. He passes this off by quickly diverting to a tapestry on the opposite wall before Will turns around.

"Artists are, generally, figuratively minded," Will continues, unaware, "and fairly romantic."

"Romance is a marvelous muse."

"Marvelous or malicious."

"In both instances, the passion is still there."  Will cocks an eyebrow and walks on through to the Renaissance section.  They had been at the museum for quite the majority of the day, moseying along at a comfortable pace through each era.  Will found the exercise calming, stimulating to his mind in a way that balances the usual work he does.

Hannibal found the activity quite absorbing in the way Will walked past and around masterpieces, leaning and crouching to find angles few would consider.  And if Hannibal noticed how well his not-patient’s jeans simply _fit,_ well…

"When does the romance become religion?" Will asks in the middle of a dome-ed room, a reference to the ceilings of Italian chapels, carefully painted to compliment the artworks.  "I suppose there’s some romanticism to the idea."  Will stands just so by a sun-lit window inspecting a bronze Uriel.  Hannibal must take too long - admittedly breathless - drinking in the halo-ed figure of Will, for his voice filters past the sunlight and inquires from much closer than it was before.

"Sorry, what?"

Will, standing not twelve inches away, lets a smirk twitch at the corner of his mouth.  “I’m wondering which part of the exhibit you’re enjoying the most right now.”

"Hard to say."

"I’ll say, since you haven’t really seen any of it."

"What do you mean?"

"You think I didn’t notice?"  The jig is up.  Hannibal bows his head just the slightest to indicate sheepish guilt.

"I was hoping."  Will, more amused than anything, takes a step in, effectively closing the gap between them.

"I can’t say I’m not flattered."  He says, "I managed to hold your attention over all these great masterpieces."

"In all fairness to the masterpieces, I _had_ seen them all before.”

"See, you had a good thing going for you, and then you opened your mouth."

So, Will plants a kiss on Hannibal’s mouth and seals it shut for the rest of their day.


	2. Your Lo-Fat Chai Tea Latte Does Not Impress Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal as a hipster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [pinglederry](http://www.pinglederry.tumblr.com/) requested:
>
>> Hannibal as a hipster. (I may or may not post this as a kinkmeme prompt at some point in the near future, but I’d love to see your take on it either way. :) )

Hannibal Lecter has many favorite pastimes.  He wonders often about time and how he might fit each little amusement within the confines of it.

Favoritism aside, there are many smaller pleasures he encourages into his life not as essential, but as enriching.  Those midnight excursions to small, smoke-filled cafe’s where people snap for applause and the latest unknown band tries very hard not to be discovered.  The guitars are all perfectly mis-tuned, and people’s earlobes are stretched out in hoops and Hannibal thinks how easy it might be to hook a finger into one and pull.

The tattoo’s crawling up the man’s neck move with his voice and animate his late night, caffeine philosophies.  Hannibal has spoken with him before, suggested to him, even, the fashion of curling his beard.  “Anarchy is the best option.  Those freak punks from the sixties had the right idea; communism is a joke, capitalism is a joke, freedom of expression is a joke.  Any kind of institutionalizes system is bound to fail.”

"You suggest we don’t even try?"

"I suggest we go back to the way is _should_ be.”  The bearded man has been adjusting the scarf around his neck all night, trying to make it perfectly rumpled.  “Animals don’t need government.  Remember that old TV show?  Kimba the White Lion?  Hell, the animals all became vegan on their own.”

Hannibal fights down a smile and turns his attention to the musician, a waif-like little girl plucking at a ukelele, murmuring purple lyrics into the shitty microphone.  He thinks of snow and how gently it crunches underfoot.

It’s marvelously putrid.  Something so beautifully destructive of art that Hannibal can actually forgive them for it.  Join in to their butchery and enjoy it.  Pomade his hair and hide, for the sake of it, behind fake glasses.

In the light of day, they populate the lawns of the school and clutter the backs of classrooms.  Clothes are fair trade, and Hannibal wears, often, sweaters two sizes too big for himself.

There was a night where he allowed a woman to tattoo a floral pattern with pinks and blues all over his arm, wrapping up his shoulder to his neck.  The permanence felt thrilling, and he would pull back the sleeves of his sweaters at times to admire it.


	3. The Music of Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannigram AU: Igor/Mortimer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a birthday present for [haanigram](http://www.hannigram.com/), based on the AU ship [Igortimer](http://hannigram.com/tagged/hysteria-stravinsky-au).  
> Accompanying message:
>
>> I am quite intoxicated as I write this drabble. Well, here goes~  
> Happy Birthday, fellow birthday-er. May your hannigram be always quality, and your AU’s always clever. Much love,  
> -Elvis

Mortimer had always been hospitable and everything the gentry holds in value with regard to decency and manners.  With the incredible success of the Jolly-Molly, the young doctor had little reason to spare expenses when it came to his estate near Wales; a spacious, green place with tall cedar trees and a wealth of small deer inhabiting the woodland.  The estate was ideal for Igor’s work, and Igor’s music was ideal for Mortimer’s parties, which he held in reluctance but with his particular brand of gravitas. 

The Stravinsky family, themselves, stayed in comfort in the guest house on the south end of the estate.  It had all amenities; bath, kitchen, den, lounge, and the like.  Even access  to a man-made hot spring; something Mortimer and his associate had been working on as of late.  Being as satisfied as they could be, Igor never really had reason to visit the young inventor in his manor, outside of their private events.  And yet, in a mood he could never rightly identify, Stravinsky would find himself playing the grand in Mortimer’s private parlor, a private concert for a single patron.

There was a sterility to it, at first.  Nothing beyond a review of his abilities.

Igor found the room in which these private serenades took place a comfort; the door was almost hidden amongst the closet doors far down the hall past Mortimer’s own chambers.  In the space itself there was only room for a single chaise and the piano besides one coffee table and a fireplace.  He found the intimacy soothing, pressing, inspiring.  Something which forces him to draw from within just in an effort to press back against the space with chords.

Mortimer began to be an extra bit of furniture for him to create around.  Igor would notice him, occasionally, sneaking in – as well as he was able, truthfully not the best at sneaking – and setting a fire in the hearth before easing himself onto the chaise.  If he were so inclined, Igor could turn to see the intoxication the music instilled in the dreamer.

There was a day when Mortimer asked how to play the instrument.  What duty would Igor have but to supply such instruction?

They would sit together for hours, side-by-side, easing along the notes in a scale.  Mortimer was eager to learn.  G major, G, A, B, C, D, E, F#, G, there you have it, Morty, but curve your fingers like _this_.

Igor would correct with professionalism; a turn of the wrist, a bend of the fingers, space the fingers more, stretching comes with practice.  Don’t be afraid to pound the keys, noise can be music if you do it right.

Mortimer never behaved like a baron in private.  When they had their lessons or concerts, he was very much the idealistic doctor with an open mind and a humble disposition.  He laughed openly, a sound Igor likened to a clarinet, over the various facets of his own inventions.  He would speak without filter about the inner workings of his partnership with St. John-Smythe, their failures and discoveries.  He would berate the medical field in passion and applaud the findings of such men like Darwin and Freud, Beaumont and Pasteur.  As he did, Igor set his words to a score meant entirely for himself.  Rarely was Igor aware of doing so.

On more leisurely evenings, Mortimer would invite Igor to stroll the property with him, for company and to provide company.  When this was done, the two would spend as much as an hour without speaking, then suddenly erupt into a cacophony of discussion about the birds or the trees or the way sunlight paints clouds every color between purple and gold to red and black when the earth turns toward another night for them.

It was on one such evening, when the air began to sting brisk at dark, that Mortimer took hold of Igor’s hand the first time.  It wasn’t spoken of, then, but thought on with great duress as Igor spent the rest of the night beside his wife.

The next day, when Igor crafted and tore notes from the grand, it was then Mortimer flung his arms around Igor and kissed him.  They spent the afternoon curled up on the chaise, the fire down to embers and with Mortimer’s legs akimbo and tired over Igor’s shoulders.

If Madame Stravinsky suspected anything, she did not show it.  Igor would retire some days more exhausted than others, often escorted to the guest house in the company of their host.  And his retiring left no relief for herself, beyond what she could do on her own, and the waking hunger it left her built a frustration she could only remedy with her host’s own invention.

Life itself has music as its very soul, a stream of thought played out in the harmony of nature’s own plethora of sound and silence.  The music made in the private parlor of Mortimer Granville would never be heard beyond the heavy oak door protecting it from the world.  And the deep gasps and moans underlying the rhythm of hips and hands would only be remembered by the two men who made them.  Taste was important; the taste of Mortimer’s skin and sweat on Igor’s tongue served inspiration for the symphony of desire unfolding in improvisation before them.  Taste was the timbre of their melody, something sweet and bitter, like herbs in water for a holy meal.  A mockery of a holy meal, at least.

And when two became one Mortimer’s cries echoed in soli against the walls above the crackle of flame or the settlement of piano string.  And Igor could feel the rush of passion much the same way he did when he was surrounded by his music, fingers hammering keys for love.  There was white light and a crescendo, dissonant chords laid out in entropy all around them both.

When they collapse together near the chaise, fire down to embers, there is opportunity to say more, add words to the music made in the small, private parlor near the Host’s own chambers.  There is thought to.  And then thought not to; as thought the words would only sour the music, and so they stay, still, upon carpet entwined a mess of limbs and shirt fabric.  Yes, they each think, silence can be music as well.

_Fin_


	4. Signed: "Norman Rockwell"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hannibal behaves like a 60's housewife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in dedication to [mean-cannibals](http://halloween-cannibals.tumblr.com/) for being an awesome beta.  
> Inspired by [this](http://hannigram.com/post/87598094193/am-i-the-only-one-who-wants-a-fanfiction-with-hannigram)

_And why not leave tonight?_

It is the last thought in Will’s mind as he left Hannibal’s home that evening, and it repeats itself a hundred-fold with the evening’s routine:  _And why not leave tonight?_

For all the ingredients of murder, for all the killers whispering in the corners of his mind, and the base, primal understanding he shares with Hannibal Lecter, Will is - and always will be - a good man.  It’s the one thing he could never change about himself, he knows, and that one flaw in himself he knows will one day be his downfall in the great game he has started.  He is a good man, and he desperately wants to save everyone.

One other prickling thought slinks into his consciousness as the night closes in tighter and draws closer to a new day: _And why ask me now?_

Hannibal Lecter is never one to settle for “almost polite.”  And the phrase inserts itself almost haphazardly and Will attempts to figure “why now?”  In the earliest hours of the morning, his best conclusion is that Hannibal knows something.  There is, at the very least, as sense of impending betrayal, that gut piercing anticipation of heartbreak.

_So, why not leave tonight?_

The bloody alternative is less than appealing, to say the least.  Imagining the scenario which may unfold even if he could give Hannibal warning enough leaves Will with a scent of blood lingering in his nose and mouth.  _Leave a note, feed my dogs.  It’s almost polite._

“Almost polite” is the most anyone should ever expect from Will anyway.

So, it’s three in the morning when Will crosses the threshold of Hannibal’s home and finds the specter he knows to be Abigail ghosting the hallways.  And the understanding behind so many vagaries comes crashing down on him and his resolution to make this happen _now_ sets permanently in his mind.

There is a red-eye to Paris that morning, and Hannibal is, of course, prepared to get them on it.

_So, we leave tonight._   And Hannibal has his own notes to leave for friends Jack and the BAU.

Paris is a city piled on streets stretching out from its center, like the spires of a wheel, and the facades of the twenties rub against a few stainless veneers of polished modernism.  Cobblestone and brick are familiar under Hannibal’s feet as he leads the three of them to the door of a richly designed apartment building.  The top floor penthouse, windows glimpsing the spires of Notre Dame, is a spacious one.

Abigail is light and free, her head scarfed in style to obscure her missing ear.  They practice French and her tongue molds to it well enough to pass as a traveler in the markets.

And then, as quickly as they left for their freedom, they are quickly confined.  Hannibal’s face is broadcasted over every Most Wanted list, his undeniable profile as common an image as any World leader.  The contents of his basement freezer and his pantry listed over cheap ink in tabloids and under pop-up ads on _Tattle-Crime.com._

“And then you have some restrictions here anyway.”  Will sits in an armchair and presses his fingers to his mouth, a time considering their options now blending into days.  “We have to move forward, there’s no getting around that.”

Hannibal’s vast funds are now locked by caution.  There is enough for now, cash from a personal safe.  The rest, sealed away in various bank accounts and bonds, is currently unreachable from Paris.  “We have enough for the penthouse, but not for travel.  It’ll be some time before I can revise our papers as well.”

“So, we’ll lay low.”  Abigail says, lounging with a creased _La Princesse de Clèves_ on her chaise.  “Or, really, Hannibal will.  Will and I could get around easy enough.”

There’s enough work for a man who knows a thing or two about motors for Will to make a handsome enough sum.  His Louisiana French takes him far enough for his needs, and is satisfying enough to fall back into.

And as Abigail busies herself with clever theft, her wrists deft in her pickpocketing, Hannibal remains in the penthouse, his only access to the outside their five wide windows with the glimpse of Notre Dame.

Will worries, at times, that Hannibal will become restless with such confinement, something of an unfortunate inconvenience no matter how temporary.  He’ll imagine scenarios of tracking Hannibal down after finding him gone, a beautifully scrawled note about an opera he wouldn’t dare miss stuck to their fridge.  He never does, and even seems content to play housewife.  Although he goes nowhere, and has no need to impress any peers or pander, he dresses always in elegance as well he can.

He greets Will each evening with a peck on the cheek, the smell of dinner permeating the penthouse, and a glass of aged whiskey placed in his hands.

Will finds his shirts pressed and cleanly folded in his dresser, never a speck of dust on any surface.  He  comes home early on days to find the doctor with an apron on his waist and his fingertips wrinkled with dishwater vacuuming the carpets.  Things he’d find so absurd for Hannibal to do before now seem like the most natural thing in their World.

There’s something nostalgic in this picture Will sees, something with white, Pickett fences and over-toned with pleasant music, easy on the ears and mild on the mind.  Something with apple pies, a red signature at the bottom left reading _Norman Rockwell_.

It’s amusing to the point where Will catches himself laughing out loud while elbow deep in motor oil.  And yet, they are that quaint picture; hidden, only, is the blood on the floorboards and the veins caught in teeth.

Abigail has fondness enough for French couture that she may spend nights in the shopping district, her various hideaways in constellations unrecognizable by anyone but her.

Those nights are doused in wine and the many other things never shown on those shows and paintings grounded in the American Dream.

_-Fin_


	5. Like an Old Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will dies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [postmortemtsarina](http://www.postmortemtsarina.tumblr.com/) requested:
>
>> kill will graham ;w;;

It’s nearly impossible to keep a beer cool in the Florida heat.  The glass slips in increments through Will’s fingers before the lip of the bottle catches against his nails.  He brings it to his lips and looks out at the marshes, sands baking to steam in the sun.  His skin, too, feels crisper.  Even on the inside, things crackle and groan with age and old injuries.

The glass is cool only against the gnarled skin on his lip, and the feeling of beer sloshing into his stomach pools at his abdominal scar.  Will looks out at the sun and the marshes and thinks of Shiloh and of Baltimore.  As it often is, in the privacy of the open air, these thoughts bring a smile against the scars on Will’s face.

"I was wondering when I’d meet you."

The bottle has slipped from Will’s finger and past his nails onto the heavy wood porch.  Death reaches out with long, grey fingers and sets it upright.

"It’s the right time," Will says, relieved to find no pain in his joints when he stands.  He leaves the weary mortal coil behind him as he follows Death down the steps, "I’ve only just decided to stop torturing myself over things."

Death is a great black shadow of a figure, like a cloud of moths.  At once beautiful and humbling.  Their fingers entwine in front of their robe of moths as a monk’s might.  They walk onward, off the soil of Earth, past stars, over moons.  Will watches as the Universe passes beneath his feet.

"I almost feel like apologizing to you," he says, "I’ve seen Men force you in so many ugly ways.  Terrifying ways."  He watches a comet curl past a distant sun, "We all think you’re terrifying.  You’re really not."

Death seems to look at Will from under their great black hood.  There is nothing there to see, only the distinct impression of a face, genuinely amused.

"No.  You’re not.  Even when Men make you ugly, you’re not."  Will keeps on, watching the Universe he’d once lived in dissolve and fade to something entirely _other_ around him. “I’m sorry I ever thought you were.”


	6. Benny Hill Theme Plays in the Distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will chases down Hannibal with the sole purpose of annoying him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [requiredtobesocial](http://www.requiredtobesocial.tumblr.com/) requested:
>
>> Will chasing Hannibal to Europe?

He can tell himself as often as he likes that it isn’t quite the stupidest thing he’s done.  He can tell himself that his purpose is just, that his intentions are righteous.  He can even repeat his mantra of what is good and right to himself verbatim at night, before the clock ticks him to sleep and he dreams.

He can, and he does.

A Parisian sits next to him on the plane.  He smells heavily of french cologne and green onion, as if to mask any lingering scent of America on his voyage homeward.  Will is, inwardly, grateful to have a neighbor so unlikely to engage in conversation with him.  He breathes out through his nose as the Parisian promptly presses headphones into his ears and buries his nose into a copy of SkyMall.

Will considers the plastic, complementary headphones in the armrest compartment.  Considers whether the distraction would be enough to keep him from second guessing or worse: rationalizing.

/////

Hannibal Lecter’s mother was of the Visconti in Milan, a fine specimen of Italian nobility.  Will had found, after many weeks of scouring archives and genealogy records, one picture of her from a society page.  Her eyes resemble Hannibal’s.  Will does his best not to dwell on why that struck him so immediately when he saw it.

Milan.  It fits Hannibal, Will decides, his sense of aesthetic and culture.  Will finds himself imagining, often, the image of Hannibal sitting, as natural as can be, against the backdrop of a perfect oil painting of a cafe.  The sun would have browned his skin some by now, or perhaps he’d dyed his hair.  He would fit right in - by blood he was one of them, by his consideration.  He would be at home.

Will picks at his shirt, rumpled with travel.  Before he boards his train to Italy, he purchases several outfits of his own kind of quiet elegance.  The old clothes are tossed into a dumpster outside his hotel; out of sight, out of mind.

/////

It’s frustrating how clever Hannibal is.  Frustrating because he’s too vain not to be visible, but too careful to be tracked down honestly.

Will is frustrated, but not to be deterred by his own honesty.  He knows where he needs to be, he just needs to get there.

/////

Will knows enough of Hannibal to know how to embarrass him.  He knows what mistakes Hannibal will not tolerate of himself for a while until he can figure out how to rationalize them.  He wants Hannibal to feel, if only temporarily, humbled by himself.  It’s petty, but it’s what Will wants.

He leaves an anonymous tip - something mundane that required immediate attention, but not something to send more than two police officers out for - and waits on a fire escape just east of where he knows Hannibal is going to kill an annoying baron whose car was double parked in the handicapped spaces at the Opera last weekend.  He watches and waits as Hannibal begins his art and as the police show up, sleepy and with cups of coffee, to stumble right onto him.

Will wishes he had Hannibal’s artistic talent, if only to be able to immortalize the look of indigence on Hannibal’s face.

He watches Hannibal kill the officers, watches him take care of the blood and the corpses and the entire bloody theatre.  The sky is now a deep burgundy, clouds hand heavy over the stars and the first rays of sunlight just tint them in these earliest hours of day.  Will smiles and heads toward the hotel where he stays and where he knows Hannibal will be going.

He can tell himself he’s followed Hannibal across the ocean to bring justice and force repentance.  He could, and he has.

But he knows that isn’t true.


	7. The Necessary Death of a Shopaholic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannigram AU - Nigel/Luke Brandon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes a ship just sings to me.  
> Nigel from Charlie Countryman and Luke Brandon from Confessions of a Shopaholic.
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://hannigram.com/post/98412176663/the-necessary-death-of-a-shopaholic).

New York is, in many opinions, a classic city for the nameless.  It’s easy to hide there in plain sight; just another accented immigrant chasing the American Dream.  Just another body on the subway trying to make their way.  Another shirt and pants colliding with a carrier of four cups of Starbucks coffee rounding a corner.

"Why don’t you watch where you’re fucking going?"  He’s not particularly upset.  Clothes mean little to him and the coffee is only warm, but it’s the principal of the thing.

The man opposite him, also drenched in the sadly warm stuff, seems more concerned with his own suit.  “Me?” He blanches, “Why don’t you?”  He wipes ineffectively at his shirt, as if it would magically disappear the stains.

"Because I already fucking do."  That one’s a warning, and fortunately the coffee-man can tell.

"Well- Sorry, then.  I don’t have time for this anyway."  He rummages in his wallet then and pulls out a not unsubstantial amount of money and hands it over.  Nigel looks at it, removes a new cigarette from his pocket - his other had been doused by the coffee - and lights it.

The coffee-man grunts impatiently and thrusts the money, forcibly, into Nigel’s shirt pocket.  “For the dry-cleaning, for God’s sake.”  And, with that, the coffee-man rushed past Nigel without another glance.

Nigel takes the money from his shirt pocket and inspects it.  There’s about one-hundred and forty in twenty dollar bills and Nigel decides he perhaps won’t be using it for dry-cleaning.

///

Manhattan Island, for all its illusion and grandeur, is rather small.  As such, the probability of coincidence is forgettable high.  Nigel is reminded of this on a subway downtown on a Thursday night, as the sleeping form of that coffee-man happens to occupy the seat across from him.

Being an unashamedly impulsive man, Nigel takes the adjacent seat to the man and looks him over.  He’s easy on the eyes, to say the least, and possessing that particular kind of profile that suggests good breeding, or, at least, wealthy breeding.  His stop is coming up, and he jostles the man’s shoulder.  “Hey,” he says, “I appreciate the dry-cleaning money.”

The man’s eyes flutter open, and he shakes himself awake to note the next stop.  “Oh,” he says, “Oh damn-“

"Miss your stop?"

The man blinks at Nigel for a few moments before recognition filters through.  “I- yes, most likely.  And what are you doing here?”

"Taking the fucking subway home, what do you think?"

The man opens his mouth but closes it again and looks at the sticky floor of the subway car.  Nigel, again on impulse, offers his hand.

"I’m Nigel, by the way.  Never fucking introduced myself last time."  The man blinks, then takes Nigel’s hand in a short handshake.

"Luke Brandon.  Pleasure."

"Going to ride this fucking subway all the way ‘round?"

"I’ll have to."  He sighs, "I’d rather not.  Bloody idiot, falling asleep.  I need to learn to take a break."

"From what?"

"Work."

"Work where?"

"You ask a lot of questions."  Luke huffs, raising a brow.  Nigel just shrugs, more for something to do than anything else.

"I have a fucking lot I want to know."  Blinking, Luke scratches the back of his neck.

"I’m a magazine editor."

Nigel coughs to poorly disguise a laugh.  “Not bad.”  Luke’s face falls into the kind of blank dead-pan common to the oft teased.

"Alright, alright.  And what do you do that’s so much more impressive, hm?"  Nigel purses his lips and looks off for a moment, deciding, for the moment, to be careful with his wording.

"Lost of things."  He says.  The simpler, the safer.

"Such as?"  Luke snorts, clearly not one for the simple.  Nigel hums and muses:

"Investing."

"Huh.  Funny, you don’t look like one of those Wall Street sharks."

"That’s the secret," Nigel grins, all charm now, "camouflage."

Luke grins back at him; a small grin, softer and more genuine.

The subway announcer bleats the name of their next stop.  “That’s be me,” Nigel says, stretching his legs in front of him - as much as is possible.  Luke rummages in his jacket pockets and fishes out a business card.

"Here," he says, "in case you were considering an investment in magazines."

Nigel smiles and tucks the card away as the train pulls to a stop and the commuters flow outward.  “I certainly fucking will be now,” he says.


	8. Doctor, Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young!Will is treated by a young!Hannibal in the ER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by [sun-to-sirius](http://www.sun-to-sirius.tumblr.com/).

Will hissed as the attending doctor tested the welts on his arm with gloved fingers.  The marks were blotchy red and terribly sore; he tried not to scowl too much.  After all, it was really his own damn fault.

“Any previous conditions we should know about?  Any substances?”  The doctor attending him was surprisingly young – no older than thirty, perhaps – and spoke with a kind of canter in his speech, as though to reinforce an allowance for little secrets.  “You can answer truthfully; doctor-patient confidentiality, after all.”

“No and no,” Will said, “I was supposed to be the designated driver.”

“For whom?  Nobody brought you in but the bouncer.”

Will almost moved to scratch the back of his head, but his doctor gently clasped his wrist and brought it back down. “For the guy I got in a fight with.”  He said.  The doctor raised his brow a moment but said nothing.  “For the record, it wasn’t a fair fight and I still landed a few good ones on ‘im.”

Will rather liked the way his doctor smiled.  “I certainly hope your friend with the baseball bat wasn’t also your emergency contact.”

“He wasn’t.”

“Whoever is will be getting a call.” The doctor said, wiping some blood from Will’s cheek with a wet cloth,  “You’ll probably be here another twenty-four hours, Mr. Graham.”

Will winced, “Please call me Will.  ‘Mr. Graham’ just sounds…”  He made a face; Will rather liked the way his doctor laughed, too.

“Will, then.”  The doctor stood after one last check of Will’s bandages and began to head out, “I’m Dr. Lecter if you need me.  Hannibal when I’m here.”  With a small grin and a nod, Dr. Lecter was gone, and Will rolled the name over his tongue a few times, _Hannibal, Hannibal, Ha-nni-bal._


	9. Prelude to a Simon & Garfunkel Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deaf!Will is a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written for [this](http://drhanniballecter.tumblr.com/post/90522037575/drhanniballecter-deaf-will-is-my-favorite-thing) post.  
> Ended up becoming a basis headcanon for [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2145138).

Will leans against the banister, his head cocked to the side as he examines the pages in a book.  Hannibal watches him, similar in his manner to a snake or lizard, waiting for the other to make a move.  Will looks up from the pages.  He places the book back on the shelf and gestures with his hands; Hannibal knows this gesture to mean ‘Begin’ and he smiles.

Hannibal isn’t proficient in the language, and learning is difficult.  Time consuming.  Instead, he and Will perform their sessions in written word, sometimes only Will writes, reading Hannibal’s lips as he speaks.  Will puts a finger to his mouth whenever Hannibal ‘mis-mouths’ a word and, with a sour expression, Will thrusts the pen and paper back into Hannibal’s hands.

Hannibal has since learned the sign language for ‘you have a fucking frustrating accent.’

Will’s mind is beautiful, incredibly perceptive - pure empathy.  Hannibal has the opportunity to watch it work; a ring-side seat, as it were, to a rare show.  At crime scenes, he likes to watch the rhythmic flow of motion in Will’s arms and hands as he explains what each monster felt, desired, _designed_.

Beverly Katz interprets into a small recorder.  Sometimes, in good fun, she gestures to Will something that looks lewd, a shorthand they developed after years in his classroom.  Will normally just scoffs and returns to work.

Once, Will enters the office with Hannibal preoccupied on his harpsichord.  Bright, sonorous melodies fill the room and he only notices Will when he feels the man’s hand slide onto his shoulder.  Will, head cocked to the side, signs him to continue, a sound-mouthed ‘please’ accompanying.  Hannibal’s breath fails him for a moment.

He begins again, something with power.  He watches as Will lowers a hand onto the body of the harpsichord; Will’s eyes close and a small smile grows on his face.


	10. My Kingdom for This AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannigram AU - Lenny/Michel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Last Bleeder AU](http://hannigram.com/tagged/the-last-bleeder-au) \- Lenny (Bleeder) and Michel (Relic Hunters; The Last Knight)
> 
> I love this AU more than I can say. Written for [this](http://elvisqueso.tumblr.com/post/92026608280/you-know-what-else-we-need-more-lenny-and-michel-i) post.

Michel is ever-so gentle; never hurried, never urging.  He slides his hands over Lenny’s back, over his nape and down his sides; his thumbs move in slow circles as Lenny quivers under him.

“ _Shhhh_ , _mon amour_ ,” he croons, kissing a tear away from Lenny’s cheek, “Do you need me to stop?”

"N-no!"  Lenny’s eyes are squeezed shut and he presses his face into the pillow.  He feels the heat pricking his cheeks and ears as Michel slips a hand over the dip of his hips, onto his cock, "I’m- it feels…good."

"Do you want me to move, _ma chérie_?”

"Um-"  He presses his face into the pillow, his ears turning bright red as he tries to say the words, "Could you- ?  No- I mean…please stay still.  Just for a little bit?"

He stutters a little, whimpering softly into his pillow as Michel strokes his cock.  He can feel himself relax around Michel’s cock.

"I-I like having you in me."  Lenny manages to say between the whimpers and the sighs.  Michel presses his lips to Lenny’s neck and just smiles.


	11. Bury Me With This Ship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannigram AU - Lenny/Michel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Bleeder AU
> 
> This isn't even a real ship. What the fuck am I doing?
> 
> Written for [this](http://elvisqueso.tumblr.com/post/93853783060/last-bleeder-headcanon-michel-eventually-convinces) post.

When they are out, Michel does the talking for them.

Lenny will stand at his arm, barely making a sound.  He won’t talk in public unless he has to, sometimes cupping a hand around Michel’s ear and whispering to him what he wants to say but can’t force himself to.

Michel supposes that, from the outside looking in, it’s a painful kind of shy.  One that had been previously poked and prodded raw trying to be broken down.  To make Lenny ‘come out of his shell,’ as it were.

Lenny ‘out of his shell’ is not something Michel is quite prepared to share.

In the confines of Lenny’s modest little apartment, or the haven of Michel’s boat, that quiet young man becomes a flurry of activity.  He speaks at a mile a minute, often going back and forth picking things up and inspecting them or handing them Michel to inspect.  He flushes, finds things to do or say.

Michel sits back and enjoys the show, of course.  He thinks to himself, at times, that there is no sight more lovely than Lenny in this private state.  This constant stream of a personality so carefully protected it’s almost a holy experience to behold first-hand, and Michel appreciates this.  And when Michel can’t keep himself anymore he stands and silences those lips for only a moment, but only a moment before he places his mouth somewhere else.

He likes to hear Lenny’s voice when they make love.


	12. If You Know What I Mean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deaf!Will teases Hannibal for sucking at ASL.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [this](http://drhanniballecter.tumblr.com/post/91235136050/okay-sign-language-101-the-sign-for-hungry-is) post:
>
>> Okay, sign language 101: the sign for “Hungry” is to make a kind of letter “c” shape with your hand and then trail it, palm facing in, ONCE from your chest to your stomach.  
> If you do that movement more than once, which is very easy mistake to make, it goes from meaning “Hungry” to “Horny.”  
> Now imagine Hannibal always making that mistake and Will teasing him every time for it, so much that Hannibal’s face turns red

As soon as Will’s eyebrows shoot up, Hannibal knows what he’s done.  Will, finding a kind of pitiless amusement in Hannibal’s fervent attempts at sign language, responds with a wry grin and a ‘You could at least take me out to lunch first.’

"You know what I meant." Hannibal says, forgoing the signing for making Will read his lips.  If he’s going to be childish about it Hannibal might as well be, too.  "Are you hungry?"

'For what?'  Here, a not so subtle glance at Hannibal's crotch.

"Stop that."

Will only grins and walks out of the office ahead of him.

-

He blunders again, embarrassingly enough, on their way to his car from a crime scene.  Beverly - never one to miss an opportunity - is by their side in a blink.

"Gee, Doc, you could at least take him to dinner first."

Will signs something Hannibal doesn’t understand, but the way Beverly laughs gives him a good idea.  He quickens his step, mindful of the pricking heat in his cheeks.

"You know what I meant."  Is all he says.

-

Half a wine between them, plates set and beautifully decorated with meticulously shaped grape leaves and lamb tips.  Will’s face glows with the anticipation of a good meal, and Hannibal signs what he meant as ‘I hope you’re hungry.’

Another error and Hannibal pauses in wait of inevitable teasing.  Will only smiles.

'I know what you meant,' he signs, and Hannibal feels the toe of Will's shoe stroke the back of his leg as the first piece of lamb disappears behind Will's lips.


	13. Los Halcones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Matthew hit the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [this](http://sweetfayetanner.tumblr.com/post/81203810904) post.

"You see a gas station anywhere?"

"There should be a rest stop two exits from here, if the map’s not lying"

"It lies all the time, though."

"We can’t use a GPS so we’ll have to trust the map."

They’d been on the road for about a week, and they’re somewhere in New Mexico, if the map isn’t lying.

Will has one hand rested on the wheel while the other reaches for a cardboard cup of coffee, long since gone cold.  They’d be lucky to make it to a gas station at this point, he thinks, and he wonders if they’d have energy enough to walk to a town in the current heat.

Matthew, legs propped against the dashboard with the crumpled map spread against his thighs, proved to be as resourceful as any special field agent Will had met.  He says he has some Iroquois in him on his mother’s side.  Will doesn’t doubt him.

Two exits later, there’s a gas station, barely hanging on in the barren desert.  They pay far too much for the gas, but, then again, it wasn’t really their money.  Neither was the car.

"You know where we could go?" Matthew asks one night while Miles Davis’s trumpet croons through the car speakers and Will lays sprawled in the back seat.  "We could go to Mexico.  Sell the car, sell the clothes.  Maybe nab some cocaine or something and sell that.  In Mexico you can live like a king on 20 grand."

"It’s an idea."  Will murmurs.  "Won’t have to worry about much, except maybe the political unrest and the cartels."

"We’d find a smaller village, then." Matt says, his eyes getting that glittering they have when he’s particularly inspired.  "Go way South, find a Toltec village.  A small one.  Not the tourist attractions, but a real small farming village.  Learn some Spanish.  Fix things or raise goats."

"They ain’t be much different than dogs, are ‘dey, cher?"  Will had the tendency to slip in his accent when he was particularly tired or comfortable.

"A bit."

"Biggest difference bein’ maybe you can milk goats."

"Milk our own goats, feed ourselves.  Live off the land and shit."

"Kill some chupacabras while we’re at it."  Will chuckles.

The song ends and the DJ speaks in a low, pillow-talk voice about Esperanza Spaulding.  Matt smiles to the sound of Will breathing, snoozing peacefully.

Crossing the boarder isn’t hard.  It’s harder to get into America than out of it.  The boarder guards are easy going and Matt and Will charm their way through without papers and without the car.

They hitchhike to the nearest town in the back of an old truck.  As thanks, Will fixes their ride’s alternator.

They pay for a room in an old motel with cracks in the adobe and peeling wallpaper.  They make love on a rickety, wire-bed frame and laugh about the absurd noise.

In the morning, the so-called ‘desayuno continental’ consists of tortillas and tequila.

The heat and the dust aren’t particularly bothersome to either of them.  They hitch rides with farmers and drug runners and bargain bus tickets.  They kiss each other so they forget how chapped lips can get in the heat.

In the night, when the moon is bright and blood looks particularly black on naked skin, they stand together over dead banditos who were foolish enough to bother them, and they watch the stars and how different they seem a thousand miles south of their old World.  They name the hawks and other birds of prey they see picking at their corpses.  They’re happy to share.

Fin


	14. Only 364 Days Left Until Next Halloween

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannigram AU - Lenny/Michel (Last Bleeder AU)
> 
> Lenny and Michel have a happy Halloween.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [haanigram](http://hannigram.com/post/101506429053/elvisqueso-guess-whos-had-two-beers-half-a), because when I drink I have no self control.
> 
> Accompanying message:
>
>> Guess who’s had two beers, half a glass of Merlot, and a shot of Captain Morgan?  
> Hint: It me.  
> -Elvis

On Halloween, Lenny gets especially animated.  He plans, meticulously, the sequence of movies to be marathon-ed.  He tracks down the various art house theatres in the habit of showing midnight Rocky Horror Picture Shows.  He decorates the apartment and Michel’s boat with spider webs, paper-mache’ pumpkins, little paper skeletons, and other endearing kitsch.

He asks about costumes.  Should they go, he asks, as ghosts or as superheroes?  Michel just smiles and says, “Whatever you wish, _mon ami.”_

They carve pumpkins eight days before, to ensure the pumpkins are ready, but do not spoil before the big night.  Lenny prints out various pictures of comic book heroes, stills of Bruce Lee and Bela Legosi.  He shows Michel how to carefully press make-shift connect-the-dots images into the pumpkins with a tack.  How to shave away just enough of the skin to make the flesh glow with the candlelight.

Michel loves this most about Lenny.  His incredible heart which he thrusts without selfishness into whatever he does.  Covered up to the elbows in pumpkin guts, Lenny is pure childish wonder; it’s as if he believes, still, the magic of the time.  For this, Michel cannot help but press kisses to his face and whisper sweet nothings and praise.  Lenny, sweet Lenny, blushes and stutters and buries himself in their embrace.

They keep candy and chocolates in bowls just inside the boat’s cabin, all carefully chosen for the delight of the little ghouls who would grace the upper deck come All Hallow’s Eve.  Michel apprehends one piece of chocolate and unwraps it, placing it against Lenny’s full lips.

Their kisses taste sweet with it, and Lenny gasps about the pumpkin guts and how he should wash them off because he doesn’t want to get any in Michel’s hair.

Michel, of course, tells Lenny he doesn’t mind the mess.

He presses Lenny up against the wall of his cabin, swallowing each little whimper and soft noise.  Lenny grasps nervously at Michel’s shoulders, leaving orange smears and wet spots.  Michel’s hand finds it’s way down Lenny’s back, gripping his ass and causing him to yelp and wrap his arms tight around Michel’s neck.

"Mich-Michel-"

"There’s pumpkin everywhere."  Lenny has the look of a chastened schoolboy.

"S-sorry."

“ _Non_ , it’ll come out in the wash.”  Michel removes his shirt and tosses it to the side.  He does the same with Lenny’s pants, who mewls about how he could have done that himself in the process.

"I wanted to do it myself."

"I-"

"You’re very cute, _ma ch érie_.”

"Um-!  Th- you-"

"Yes?"

"You’re handsome."  Lenny’s eyes drop to the zipper of Michel’s pants and he swallows.  Michel can see the little store of courage build up behind Lenny’s eyes as he reaches out and zips them down, pushing the denim down Michel’s hips.

“ _Ma_ _ch érie…”  _Lenny is so light, it’s nothing for Michel to lift him up and hold him against the wall.  Lenny wraps himself around Michel as tight as can be, as if for fear of falling.  He kisses fervently, dizzyingly, as Michel gently and slowly fingers him.

When they join, Lenny’s quiet moans become desperate pleas and groans for more, _more_ , ** _more_**.  And Michel whispers between heavy breaths and grunts how _good_ Lenny is.  How _tight._ How _lovely_.  A lilting mixture of French and English, pressed against Lenny’s lips which tremble around Danish endearments.

Lenny’s cock, pink and red and straining for release, rubs against their bellies.  As he gets close, Michel feels the press of nails into his back, the tightening of arms around his neck and as Lenny cums, soundlessly screaming with pleasure.  He presses a kiss to Lenny’s sweat caked brow and tells him how well he did and how much he is loved.

Michel cums soon after, gasping and spilling out from Lenny’s tender ass.  They melt down to the floor in a tangle of limbs and lazy kisses.

"We made a real mess…"  Lenny murmurs after a time, nuzzling against Michel’s chest.

"We can take a shower soon," Michel says, his fingers carding through Lenny’s hair, "for now, let’s just be."

He can see Lenny biting his lip and pressing his nose and lips to Michel’s chest.  “ _Jeg elsker dig_.”  He says, so softly it’s barely a whisper.

“ _Je t’aime.”_ Michel says.  “Happy Halloween.”

_Fin._


	15. The Doge Chooses the Human, Mr. Graham

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will acquires dogs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Request from [requiredtobesocial](http://www.requiredtobesocial.tumblr.com/):
>
>> will finding a new puppp?

Old Man McGreely owned a large farm ten miles north of Will’s home.  Will had only been there once, on invitation to meet his three massive guard dogs, each meticulously trained and well bred - creatively named Red 1, Red 2, and Red 3.  The old man had wanted Will to know exactly what end he’d meet if he ever got the gumption to wander onto McGreely’s ten acres.

No, Old Man McGreely was not a warm man.

Even when Will was inevitably asked to look after the dogs whenever the old man was away, he never offered any more than a curt word of appreciation and the leashes.

And when he passed on, the distant relatives flocked in droves to right ransack the place of anything valuable he might’ve had - including the three guard dogs.

Or they tried to.

Imagine Will’s surprise to find himself called to the ten acres of McGreely’s sacred lands to round up three incredibly well trained Dobermans who didn’t want to abandon their post.

Will, in a way, admired their tenacity and their loyalty to the old man.  The way they moved in sync, like a strike unit of green berets.  He had to hand it to them: they were good at their job.

Even as the farm overgrew itself and dust settled over the floorboards and unwanted remains of furniture, the dogs made their rounds as they always did.  It took a week before Will could even get them to eat inside the house.

Perhaps longer for them to understand that their old master no longer required their protection.  It seemed fitting, then, for them to find a new master to protect.  And apparently, not just any schmuck would do.

It took another two weeks before the various distant relatives and interested parties gave up their siege.  The frustrating impossibility of forcing loyalty out of the dogs left Will the last man standing in their little tug-of-war.  The last worthy lord for the faithful guards to swear fealty to.

And so, in Will’s pack, Reds 1, 2, and 3 became numbers 7, 8, and 9.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here r the doges  
> 


	16. Very (Or: The Healthy Application and Practice of a Fifteen Minute Distraction)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannigram AU - Nigel/Luke (The Necessary Death of a Shopaholic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [haanigram's](http://hannigram.com/tagged/NECESSARY-DEATH-OF-A-SHOPOHOLIC-AU) Necessary Death of a Shopaholic AU. Originally posted [here](http://hannigram.com/post/101506429053/elvisqueso-guess-whos-had-two-beers-half-a).  
> Accompanying message:
>
>> I’ve been drinkiiiiing agaiiinnn~~~  
> And reading Terry Pratchettttttttt~ ~~~ ~~ ~  
> -Elvis

"Who let you in here?"

Nigel, who never liked to answer unnecessary questions, simply lit himself a new cigarette.  Luke, who rather liked to have all of his questioned answered, no matter how unnecessary, glared from over his paperwork.

"At least close the door behind you." He said finally, with the tinge of irritation unique to those who don’t actually mind the situation at hand but would really have liked a phone call first.  "What do you want?"

Amazingly, Nigel actually closed the door.  “I was in the area, thought I’d drop in,” he said, puffing rank smoke into the room.  Soon, the smell would travel through the not-quite-old-but-not-quite-new ventilation system, and someone in mailing would sneeze.  “You busy, handsome?”

"Yes, I’m busy.  Very."  Luke glowered into his computer screen, mostly to hide any sort of pleased expression he might have which usually followed being called ‘handsome.’

"How busy is ‘very?‘“Nigel had a certain spectrum of ‘very’ worked out in his head which ranked from 1 to 10.  1 being something slightly more than the natural state of things, and 10 being the size of the original Mongol Empire.  Luke was well aware of the spectrum.

"6." He said, although it was really more of a 4.4.  Nigel, being rather good at sensing bullshit, sat on Luke’s desk (and consequently made Luke’s copies of the last month’s billing statements unattainable) with a dower look on his face.

"What’s that?" He poked the paper in Luke’s hand several times more than necessary.

"An _editorial_ ,” Luke said, “and I need to have it revised and ready by 4 this afternoon, so, _if you don’t mind-_ ”

Nigel very much minded, at about a 7, and illustrated his mindfulness by yanking the papers from Luke’s hand and peering at them.  He puffed some smoke onto them and tossed them away.  Luke, although unsurprised by the action, reserved his right to sputter British-ly in appall.

"Why in _blazes_ would you- ?”

"Because I _mind_ , Luke.”  Nigel leaned over on the desk so he was very much in Luke’s face.  So much in Luke’s face, in fact, that he could easily count the various scars and blemishes on Nigel’s face if he hadn’t already done so before.  “Did you ever consider that I came here because I missed you?”

It hadn’t, but Luke was not giving up so easy.  “I just saw you last night.”

"Exactly.  _Last_ night.”

"I’m at _work_.”

"You’ve got _blinds._ ”

"What’s that got-"

Luke didn’t even get to finish his sentence.  He’d been interrupted by the sudden arrival of Nigel’s tongue, which tasted of a strange mixture of cigarettes and _Big Red_ chewing gum.  It was not, altogether, unpleasant.

When Nigel finally let Luke breathe, he crushed his stump of a cigarette out in one of the empty coffee cups on Luke’s desk and asked: “And I know you probably have fifteen minutes.”

Flushed and rather woozy, Luke simply nodded weakly and let Nigel ceremoniously draw the blinds and lock the door.

"Bend over the desk."  He said, generously assisting by clearing some of Luke’s paper’s away and onto a nearby chair.

"I feel like I’m in a bad porno," Luke griped, carefully undoing his tie and unzipping his slacks as he did so, "God, this is such a cliche-"

"Nothing bad about cliches," Nigel mused, finger looping into one of Luke’s belt straps and pulling upward.  Luke whined a little in response.  "A cliche’s just a thing everybody likes so much that everybody does it.  It just means you know what you’re gettin’."  Satisfied that he’d made a fairly articulate point, Nigel slipped Luke’s slacks down past his knees and knelt down.

"I suppose you’re not _wrong_.”  This, for Luke, was about the equivalent of admitting Nigel was _right._ "I just feel a little silly, is all-w- _h OA_ -A!”

Nigel had just lapped his tongue all around Luke’s rim.  It was a new experience for both of them.

However, it was not entirely uninformed.  Nigel - in his younger, more versatile days - had eaten out many a girl back in Romania.  Girls with pink lips, girls with lopsided lips of different shades, girls with hair, girls with large clitorises, girls on their periods, girls with vaginas they got through surgery.  He was something of an expert at eating out girls.

Similar principles, he reasoned, should also apply to the male ass.

Luke, who had never had much experience with mouths being near sensitive lower regions at all, was gasping and white-knuckling the edge of the desk like his life depended on it.

He started seeing spots when Nigel reached around to stroke his painfully hard cock.

“ _God, Nigel…_ ”

Cum streaked onto the tasteful patterned loop carpet.  Nigel wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and rubbed his jaw as he stood.

"I think I still got it," he said, a triumphant smirk inappropriately plastered on his face.

"If I get fired for this…" Luke was preoccupied with wiping the saliva from his rear with several handfuls of tissue, worrying in the back of his mind about the state of the carpet and whether he had air freshener in his desk drawer.

"You can come work for me."  Nigel supplied, as if losing one’s job was nothing to complain about at all.

"That’s an even worse cliche."  Luke zipped up his pants like he was ending a sentence.

"Nothing bad about that."

Conversation over, Nigel lit another cigarette and kissed Luke on the cheek.  “See you around, handsome.”

_-Fin_


	17. I Was Held Up in Traffic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannigram AU - Necessary Death of a Shopaholic (Nigel/Luke)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Necessary Death of a Shopaholic AU. Originally submitted [here](http://hannigram.com/post/105251762778/i-was-held-up-in-traffic-necessary-death-of-a) with this caption:
>
>> Before Ragged Old Bastard IPA meets Jesus tonight I’mma send u this awful piece of smut~~~  
> \- Elvis
> 
> To the dear who worries for my liver: not to fret, I've got nothing on Ernest Hemingway - at least in that department.

The entire apartment smelled of smoke; thick and tar-like.  So much so that Luke choked on his “hello” as he came in.

Not that he would have finished anyway: Nigel already had his tongue in Luke’s mouth.

"Hello to you, too."  He said, drawing in another breath from his cigarette.  The smoke curled from his nostrils in loops, mesmerizing in the low light from the windows.

"I came to give you this back," Luke handed over the parcel with Nigel’s forgotten undershirts, carelessly left behind on previous nights filled with too much alcohol and heavy food.  "I can’t really stay, Nigel.  I just stopped by on my way to work-"

"You must have fifteen minutes."

"I actually don’t."

"They can wait fifteen minutes.  The building will still be there when you get back."  Nigel’s lips pressed words against Luke’s neck, leaving a sentence trail of damp imprints in his skin.

Really, fifteen minutes was nothing at all in a city like New York.  It all depended on what you spent it on.

Luke tossed the parcel aside and undid his tie.  He could almost drink Nigel’s smile as he pushed his lover down onto the couch and hastily removed his pants.  Nigel, in a moment of courtesy, shoved his own jeans down to his knees, exposing his half-hard cock.

“ _Just_ fifteen minutes.”  Luke warned, stroking Nigel’s cock until the pre-cum smeared his fingers.

"Of course."  Nigel barely got the words out as Luke climbed up on top of him and settled down on his cock.  He groaned, digging his fingers into Luke’s hips as Luke rocked back and forth.  He loved watching Luke from this angle, the way the curls would matte to his forehead and his pink mouth contorted into _o_ 's of pleasure.  The way his eyes gleamed to a deep dark blue.

It only could ever last fifteen minutes.  Luke had little time for more than that.  All they could hope for - all Nigel could try to provide - was fifteen minutes that could feel like so much longer.  Something that Luke could take with him to work.  Something that Nigel could hold onto until the next fifteen.

-Fin


	18. See You in Class

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannigram - High School AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [loki-shags-tony](http://loki-shags-tony.tumblr.com/) requested:
>
>> high school will & hannibal, please? <3

“You’ll be working in pairs on this.”

There’s a collective eruption of activity in the chemistry lab; some students immediately latching onto their usual partners and claiming their tables automatically.  They understand the routine and are well comfortable with it.  There are the few that have no such consistency.  Their preferred partners have different classes, or, they have no preferred partners at all.  Will is of the latter kind, who often do all the work simply to get it done without problems.  He never minds, so long as he gets his grade.

But what can one do when paired with the only other one like him in the entire class?

“You want to light the burner?”  He asks, and it seems polite enough.

Hannibal Lecter adjusts the safety glasses they’re made to wear during experiments and shrugs.  Will can see this kind of mutual deferment will get them nowhere and lights the burner himself.

They’re testing the reaction of certain materials to flame and comparing them.  Something basic, but also something to do.  It’s really all anyone can ask for, so long as they don’t have to work on paper too much.  The lab is filled with the chatter of students, some discussing the project, some ignoring it and talking about something else.  Will looks at Hannibal and watches him watching a tab of paper soaked in some sort of potassium chloride solution.  Hannibal’s nose scrunches up and Will has to bite back a laugh.

“Smells that bad?”

“It smells like old fruit,” Hannibal says, grimacing as he smothers the flaming tab.  “You can’t smell it?”

“Not enough, apparently.”

Hannibal waves it off, “What’s the next one?”

“Uhh, magnesium…it’s this one.”  he hands over the small piece of ribbon and his fingers brush Hannibal’s very briefly.

Hannibal Lecter is, like himself, a ‘new kid.’  More exotic because he comes through the international program, but he has the same quality of ‘mysterious other’ that makes other students handle him like glass.  Had he been more inclined to socializing, Will thinks, they might have had some things to talk about.

“May I ask you a favor?”  Will turns his head back to see Hannibal lightly jogging to catch up to him.  For a second, it’s rather impressive how gracefully Hannibal can slip between the bodies in the crowded hallways.  Such a thing takes remarkable skill.

“What kind of favor?”  Will asks before he realizes he’s worded his response incorrectly.  Hannibal doesn’t seem to notice that.

“I won’t be in tomorrow.  Would it be too much trouble to collect my homework and bring it to me?  I should be home by the evening.”

“Not a problem.”  Will has no plans.  “What’s the address?”

Where Hannibal lives is a modest looking bungalow not far from the school.  One of many similar ones built for young families in the early nineties.  Will shuffles his feet against the grey concrete porch and knocks a few times.

There is nothing for a moment, and Will debates knocking again when the sound of lock turning precedes Hannibal’s warm smile and invitation inside.

Will is standing in Hannibal’s living room before he understands that he is now a proper guest.  It’s a moment longer before he’s noticing everything about the room and how the walls are still the kind of bland white that can only be described as ‘wall-colored.’  There’s a simple couch and chair, and coffee table and a rug over the carpeting and a divider to the slight split level to the kitchen.  The walls are mostly bare, save a few drawings of far-away places and hand studies.

“Do you have to leave soon, or can you stay a while?”  Hannibal asks him as his jacket is taken and hung by the front door.

“I have some time,” Will says, “You don’t live with a host family?”

“No,” Hannibal says.  He doesn’t chastise Will for the question, only brings Will a soda pop from his kitchen,  “My Uncle rented this house and left me to my devices.  It’s closer to the medical campus than anyone on the host-list was, anyway.”

“You’re co-oping medical?”

“Mmhmm.”  Hannibal sits on in the armchair and Will takes this as a cue to sit down.  He dumps the various notebooks from his backpack onto the couch and pulls a few packets from his binder. Hannibal looks them over casually before spreading them over the coffee table, “I have an internship with Johns Hopkins.  I did some medical illustrations and earned a scholarship.”

Will eyes the drawings on the wall again.  “Damn,” he says.  He can’t really think of anything else that could be appropriate.

Hannibal’s smile is genuine, and Will takes a mental sigh of relief.

“You’re ‘new’ yourself, aren’t you?”

“That obvious?”

“No.  But I can tell.”

Will snorts and hands over a stack of notes.  Hannibal eyes them, curiously, before taking them in his fingers and flipping a few pages.  “You took notes for me?”

Will shrugs.  Hannibal sets the stack of notes on the coffee table and smiles, “That’s charming.”

“That’s kind of a dick thing to say.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t look at them.”

“You know, most people would have just said ‘thank you.’”

“You expected me to act like most people?”

“I don’t know what I expected.  Why do you even care?”

Hannibal tilts his head with an impish look of innocence on his face, “Just curious.”

“Put a cork in it.”

He actually laughs, then.  It’s sonorous, and a bit different than an American’s laugh Will has encountered.  Will shoves his things into his bag and heads for the door.  “Whatever,” he snaps,  “You’re _welcome_ , by the way.”

“Will.”

Will stops at the door and turns back.  Hannibal has his jacket and is walking over to him, still smiling.  “Thank you.  And for your company as well, I might add.”  Taking his jacket, Will glances into Hannibal’s eyes.  He nods.

“See you in class.”


	19. Chicken Soup for the Psyhopathic Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mason Verger encounters a pickpocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous requested:
>
>> Idk if you do dark stuff but maybe Mason Verger is in the city and a young pickpocket takes his wallet, but Mason catches him and is like "now you have to pay me back" etc
> 
> **Warning** for the suggestions of future bad-happenings to a small child.

Community service is a fine thing.  Very healthy; very _cleansing_ for the soul.  Mason tells as many people as he can the virtue of community service.  How inspired he is by the devotion to children and their well-being.  Their _reform_ from homeless vagabonds to cherished foster children.  It’s absolutely wonderful.  God’s work, he calls it.  And the media likes that he says this quite a lot.

There are times when Mason goes out to find more ways to be of service to his community.  When in the city, he’ll have his driver take him around the slummy neighborhoods so he can browse the unfortunates for a chance for some _charity_.  But sometimes, he supposes, you just can’t _force_ it.

The young boy squawks as his wrist is twisted.  He can’t be much more than ten years old.  Mason holds his hand out and, with a stern “Phone, please.” the phone is dropped into it.  _Oh, what World are we living in today,_ Mason laments, _where a tender young boy as this will corrupts his very soul with theft._

Then he sees it, the purpose.  Clearly, this is another chance to be charitable and so Mason grips the boy’s shoulders with both hands and looks him in the eyes.  The boy stops his blubbering over his wrist, praise God, and is looking back expectantly.

“Now,” Mason says, the authority of one on the path of Righteousness in his voice, “That was _not_ a very good thing to do, was it?”

The boy sniffs.

“No.  So, why did you do it?”

The boy shrugs.  Mason’s lips go tight.

“That’s not really a _satisfactory_ answer.”  Mason looks up and then back to the boy.  “What’s your name?”

The boy doesn’t speak.  Mason’s grip tightens and he smiles with his teeth.  “Sam.”   He says, finally.  The boy’s voice is very small and rough.

“Well, Sam,” Mason says, “Where are your parents?”

“Don’t have none.”

“Don’t have _any._   Good grammar is a good virtue, Sam.”

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t you have any parents, Sammy?”

“Sam.  ‘Re dead.”

Mason nods in a way he supposes is ‘wisely.’

“Did you see them die, Sammy?”

Sam shakes his head.  “I saw ‘em dead, but I didn’ see it happen.”

Sam shifts from foot to foot.  Mason looks at the mismatching sneakers and makes a face.

“You’re a sad case, Sammy.  Don’t take things.”

“What’re you gonna do, Mister?”

A child has better instincts than most adults before the functions of social grace are taught to override them.  Sam looks into Mason Verger’s eyes and tries to pull out from the vice grip on his shoulders.

“I’m going to _help_ you, Sammy.” From his pocket, he takes a little wrapped candy and holds it in front of Sam’s face.  “Tell me: do you like chocolate?”


	20. Not-So-Easy Riders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Biker Gang AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written for an anon on [hannigram.com](http://hannigram.com/post/113492309663/is-there-such-thing-as-a-motorbike-gang-au-i).

“Small fry,” they were saying, flicking mashed cigarette butts and turning their backs.  Small fry in a big heap of trouble.

“You got a problem with size?”  Will slipped tobacco from one cheek to the other, “Got a problem?  Come on, big fry, what do you say?”

The boys were tensing up behind him.  Brian was tapping his metal pipe nervously against the asphalt.  Behind his sunglasses, Will was watching the other leader’s hands as they rested, unperturbed, on their handles.

“I wouldn’t say that’s a problem for us, no.”

It’s a wide dirt street with some old rural fencing beneath some telephone wires.  Will couldn’t say he didn’t expect this, but the remoteness was a surprise.

Bev had warned him it was a shit thing trying to cut into the drug scene where the Black Stags ran things.  “Either this’ll be just crazy enough to work, or it’ll be too crazy and it’ll blow up in our faces,” she’d said then.

“Kaboom,” she said now.  She started flipping her butterfly knife around in figure eights.  Will could glance over and see the Hellhounds logo glint and blur and make a bloody eight in the air.

“Then let us on our way,” Will said.  He revved his engine to punctuate, “If there’s no problem there’s no business.”

“Ah, but haven’t even been properly introduced.”  The other bikers cackled as their engines roared.  The dirt kicked up in a cloud behind howling bikers and the stink of burnt rubber.  The Hellhounds were encircled withing seconds.  Their leader stopped right in front of Will.

“No need for introductions.”  Will said.

“Oh?”

“You know who we are.”

The leader smiled, and somehow Will knew it must be a genuine one, because the lines near the man’s eyes deepened.  “And yet I know none of your names.”

“And I don’t know yours.  I don’t mind keeping it that way.”

“Might I ask why?”

“I don’t find you that interesting.”

That smile was back.  “Oh, you will.”


	21. To Be Alone in a Crowd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orgy AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> U wanna blame someone blame [Molly](http://mean-cannibals.tumblr.com/post/127606391138/porn4ladies-awwh-au-where-hannibal-and)
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://mean-cannibals.tumblr.com/post/127611504983/to-be-alone-in-a-crowd)

While Will wasn’t normally the social type, there was something detached about the occasional orgy which he, if he were to say honestly, indulged in more than was, perhaps, moderate.

Anonymity was key, of course.  Never anything with names.  Just a place and bodies and a good time.  He liked it; it was fun.  And that was what mattered.

What wasn’t entirely fun was being left out in a crowd of lovers with only his erection to keep him company.  Standing up, he tried to pinpoint a cluster he could worm his way into.  Orgies could sometimes fall to the same rules as seating the first day of school.  You have to get in quick, or you’ll be stuck floundering around other people’s friends.

He didn’t have to flounder for long: although he normally avoids eye contact with the attendees, a pair of rouge ones managed to catch his from across the room.  The eyes smiled and a welcoming gesture brought him in from his lonely state.

Grateful, he waded through the throng and was well received by his rescuers mouth.  He sighed, his fingers tangling in ashen hair.

An orgy can last as long as anybody wants it to.  Some leave sooner.  Some linger until they feel the place is cleaned up enough not to feel guilty about.  Will lingered only so long, his lust satisfied by so many positions and games he wondered if he’d even want to join another very soon.  He almost even said goodbye to the ash-haired man, though they only spent the first half of the night together.

Instead, he bowed out into the early morning, shagged out and drowsy with his head wonderfully empty of all things horned and bloody and filled with bile.

He saw, briefly, the ash-haired man entering a Bentley on his way to his own car.  Once more, the eyes caught his and, for a rare moment, they saw each other.

“Adieu.”  Said the ash-haired man, and in a moment he was in his car and gone.  Will felt the World become suddenly very lonely.

////

“I need you to help me with a psychological profile.”

A single sentence, but each word of it had a thousand more behind it with the names and faces of eight dead girls.  Will agreed to come along to Jack Crawford’s office only because he thought he could still talk his way out of the case.

His planned words, his equivocations, all fizzled and died in his mouth when he saw a man with ashen hair and those curious red eyes look at him with the same covert awe he himself was probably wearing.

“Do you know each other?”  Jack should earn a medal:  _Gross Understatement of the Year._

“Not exactly.”  The ash-haired man’s smile was as welcoming as his arms and mouth had been before, “We’ve never been properly introduced.”

“Will Graham.”

“Hannibal Lecter.”

Will felt that, were he to forget everything else, he would remember the way Hannibal’s eyes crackled when they shook hands.


	22. A VERY Short Drabble #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-WOTL bullshit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am blaming [awildcreature](http://awildcreature.tumblr.com/) for this.
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://elvisqueso.tumblr.com/post/129539443290/awildcreature-its-all-ur-fault-very-short).

It’s their custom for Will to watch Hannibal prepare meals.  He sits, straddling the back of one of Hannibal’s old mission chairs with a tumbler of bourbon or other in hand.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Hannibal stands on the opposite side of the kitchen island, eyes strategically downcast to avoid Will’s gaze.  Will knows he doesn’t have to look at the leeks to cut them.

“I never said it was,” he says.  He doesn’t say anything more, but the unsaid lingers over them both like a pall.

Will rests his chin on his forearms and grins.  He watches Hannibal’s eyes drink in the way his smile distorts the scar on his face.

“You worry too much.”

“I worry when it is appropriate to worry.”

“If we worried when it was appropriate to worry, we’d be worried all the time.”

That’s gets a small smile.  Will sips his bourbon to the victory.

“You so often mock our inability to survive separation, yet you constantly place yourself in situations where it would be possible for me to lose you.”  It’s a question disguised as a statement.  Will answers with another question:

“Tell me, Hannibal: which hurts more?  The threat of losing me, or the knowledge that I willingly put you under such threat?”

It’s two minutes before Hannibal answers; enough time to finish mincing the peppers and ready the frying pan.

“That you know such a threat can have this effect on me is both a comfort and a terror, Will.”  More silence beside the sizzling of oil in a pan and the gentle swish of bourbon in a glass.

And then, gently, “Do you love me, Hannibal?”

“Yes.”


	23. A VERY Short Drabble #2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Post-WOTL bullshit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *screams*
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://elvisqueso.tumblr.com/post/129679494880/another-very-short-drabble-strong-winds-howl-in).

Strong winds howl in night outside, rattling the window panes.  Beneath that sound is the steady rhythm of Hannibal’s breathing, his head on Will’s chest – mindful of the still-healing stab wounds.  Will traces the edges of Hannibal’s ear with his fingertips, then down along his cheekbone and back up to where his hair parts.  Hannibal’s nose is almost aquiline, bent where it had been broken before – probably more than once.  There are some small scars and permanent lines on his forehead and Will traces these, too.  Hannibal’s arm tightens around his middle; a sleepy kind of gesture that Will finds terribly endearing.

“What do you hear?”  Will watches Hannibal react to the vibrations of his voice; his friend starts minutely, as if Will had just suddenly appeared under him.  Hannibal’s eyes turn up to his and he says:

“Your heartbeat.  It’s regular; your breathing is still a little labored.”

“Human heart monitor.”

“Well, we don’t have a real one.”

“Are you afraid I’m going to die in my sleep?”

Hannibal’s eyes turn away again.

Will watches Hannibal’s eyelids flicker for a while, then moves.  Hannibal’s doesn’t protest as Will rolls them over and holds himself up with his forearms, his belly pressed to Hannibal’s like flower petals to pages.  He can see directly into Hannibal’s face, now.  He can see a stirring of white and soft reds and oranges as Hannibal looks at him.  The static din that comes with hesitation; appalled at an inability to know what to do, and so he stays damnably still.  There is so much there amid the fear and the awe that Will can feel tears pricking at the backs of his eyes.  He lowers his face to Hannibal’s, feels the air being drawn in quick as Hannibal holds his breath.

“Are you afraid, Hannibal?”

Their lips are close, and as he speaks Will can feel the static pass from his to Hannibal’s.  Hannibal’s eyes are widened and Will knows he can feel it, too.

“Very.”  Is all Hannibal says through a puff of air.

Will smiles; he can see the beauty Hannibal feels looking at him when he does.

“You should be,” he says, “it’s about time somebody put the fear of God into you.  Might as well’ve been me.”

The tension breaks over Hannibal’s face and grateful relief flows out through the cracks.  It lasts a single second, and Will takes it, pressing his lips to Hannibal’s.

It’s a chaste enough kiss; Will can feel the pricking of Hannibal’s stubble against his skin and wonders if his stubble feels different.  Hannibal doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, mostly letting them hover over the fabric of Will’s shirt; his fingers occasionally twitching to touch without committing to the urge.


	24. Inquire Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will tries to get a job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble request by [whatkindofcrazy](http://whatkindofcrazy.tumblr.com):
>
>> _Hannibal owns a sex shop and needs another sells assistant. Enters university!will graham who needs a job and is trying to get the job._

“Um, hi.  I’d like to speak to the manager?”

The man behind the counter smiled pleasantly, “You are, presently.  How may I help you?”  Will pinked a little and cleared his throat, staring hard at the man’s necktie.

“I came about a job.  I saw a posting for a sales clerk online.”  He pulled his resume out of his pocket and smoothed it on the counter.  The man behind the counter picked it up gingerly between his thumb and forefinger.  The motion seemed strangely prudent against the backdrop of a sex shop.

“I see,” the manager said, “Do you have any sales experience?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have any experience with this particular kind of stock?”  Coming from the manager, the question sounded as blase as a question about the weather.  Will stuck up his chin, eyes pinned to the man’s nose now.

“I know some things.”

There was a pause; Will forced his eyes up to meet the manager’s and what he saw was a heavy mix of intrigue and _something._ It made his stomach flip.

“Alright.  Would you be opposed to an interview right now?”

“N-not at all, sir.”

“Call me Hannibal.”  A hand was offered.  Will must have reached out to take it because now there was a sparking sensation in his palm and they were shaking hands.

“…Will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You should totally send me drabble promts sometimes. [Yo](http://elvisqueso.tumblr.com/ask).


	25. It's Going Where It Goes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will gets a routine check-up with Dr. Lecter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble request from anonymous:
>
>> _Prompt: Hannibal is doctoring and ends up fucking Will with a thermometer even though it starts as an innocent check up_

“Where is _that_ going?”

Dr. Lecter frowned as he prepared the rectal thermometer.  “I recognize there is some reluctance in many men to have any object inserted rectally.”  Will snorted, beginning to undo his belt.

“I think anybody would express some _reluctance_ , Doctor.”

“Still.  It’s a more accurate reading of your body temperature.  I would appreciate it if you were to lean forward against the bench, please.”  Dr. Lecter was, if nothing else, a true professional.  Will obliged without complaint.  He sucked in a breath when the cold shaft of the thermometer entered him.  “Let me know if you experience any discomfort.”  Dr. Lecter said as he set the thermometer in deeper.

“Do you have to push it in that far?”  Will choked it out more than said it.

“The further in it is, the more accurate the reading.  Have I hurt you in any way?”

“No, it’s fine.”

Dr. Lecter hummed and pushed a little farther in.  Will shuddered as the cool tip of the thermometer rubbed past his prostate.  The doctor must have taken that as a sign of discomfort because he was suddenly paused and puling back.

“Oh, n-no, you were fine.  Sorry, it’s just…cold.”  Facing the wall as he was, Will couldn’t see the look on Dr. Lecter’s face, but he guessed it was incredulous.  As he pushed the thermometer back, he hit against Will’s prostate again and said:

“Are you beginning to enjoy this checkup, Mr. Graham?”  Will’s dick twitched at how deep the doctor’s voice dropped.  He cleared his throat:

“I might be.”

“Well, that’s good.  It’s important to look at a medical examination as a trip to look forward to, instead of a chore to dread.”  As he said this, he began moving the thermometer back and forth, the smooth end of it rubbing around and over that pleasurable knot.  Will cursed and pressed a hand to his hardening cock.

“Ah,” Dr. Lecter said, “I see this is having a positive effect.  May I?”  His latex-gloved hand cupped Will’s balls.

Will was breathing heavy now, his forehead pressed to the waxy paper on the examination bench.  “Whatever you think is best, Doctor.”  He gasped, moaning aloud when the good doctor went to work, pumping the thermometer faster and massaging his balls like a thousand-dollar call-girl’s mouth.

“I’m going to count down from three, Mr. Graham,” Dr. Lecter’s voice seemed to get impossibly low and husky, “and when I get to zero, I would like you to cum.  Can you do that for me?”

It was all Will could do to nod and stroke himself in time with the doctor’s thermometer faster and faster until he heard the doctor say “zero.”  The orgasm shot out through him like a shock, and his knees buckled underneath him.  Dr. Lecter had to hold him up, easing him over the bench so he wouldn’t sink to the floor.

The thermometer, no longer cold, was slipped out of him and he heard the doctor say: “You did very well, Mr. Graham.  Be sure to make another appointment with the secretary on your way out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws confetti*


End file.
